


A Little Love (Is Better Than None)

by a_static_world



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Destiny, Eventually!, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Languages, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, heavy use of italics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25415440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: Jaskier prides himself on being quite fluent in the various languages of love. Different people require different attentions; where one person may delight in flowers and trinkets, another might relish small affirmations. It’s part of what makes him such a notorious lover, he thinks. That he can pinpoint within five minutes what another person craves, what he can do to make them feel loved, isn’t so much natural talent as being in an industry that requires him to please whoever he comes across.Geralt is the first person he can't read.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 204





	A Little Love (Is Better Than None)

Jaskier prides himself on being quite fluent in the various languages of love. Different people require different attentions; where one person may delight in flowers and trinkets, another might relish small affirmations. It’s part of what makes him such a notorious lover, he thinks. That he can pinpoint within five minutes what another person craves, what he can do to make them feel loved, isn’t so much natural talent as being in an industry that requires him to please whoever he comes across. 

He falls in love too quickly, he knows. It takes little to distract him; a pair of green eyes flashing over a silk fan, a particularly well-cut man in a well-cut suit, a color of silk he’s never quite seen before. His attraction, simply put, is to beauty itself, to nobility and finery and richness. The shine of polished cutlery in candlelight, the whisper of skirts over a stone floor, places that smack of money and taste. 

Which is why it’s quite the fucking shock when he falls as hard for Geralt of Rivia as he does. 

The witcher is not, at first glance, beautiful. Sure, he possesses a strong jaw and a sturdy nose and eyes the color of a rather delicious lemon tart. He smells of onions, however, and gives off a rather off-putting aura of  _ don’t you dare come near me _ . At second glance, though, Jaskier can see that  _ oh, he’s gorgeous _ . He’s eighteen, he’s got an embarrassing amount of bread in his pants, and he rather feels as if he’s just bumped into destiny itself, glowering in the corner of a tavern in Posada. The witcher, Geralt, speaks little, preferring to communicate in grunts and glib one-liners. 

He’s the first person Jaskier can’t read.

He tries, gods damn him. Blabbers on and on about nothing, over campfires and slightly burnt squirrel and alongside Roach. After a year or so, he feels confident enough to buy the witcher a gift; nothing extravagant, but he’d noticed that rather than cleaning his swords properly, Geralt just...wiped them on his pants. The next time they stopped in a village, Jaskier took his recently-earned coin and ducked into the nearest swordsmith. The man working spoke fast and had a head of curly hair, so naturally Jaskier walked out with considerably lighter pockets. When he laid down the wares (a tightly-knit cloth and a tub of buffing grease, whatever the hell that was) Geralt merely grunted, shoving the items deep in his pack.  _ Okay,  _ Jaskier thinks.  _ Maybe gifts aren’t his thing. _

  
  


It takes him two more years of, if he’s honest, annoying Geralt to the point of mild affection before the other man shows even a crack. Jaskier managed to wheedle him into being personal protection at a  _ very _ important banquet for the Princess Pavetta, and as Geralt couldn’t exactly go in his normal scowly, onion-scented way, Jaskier offered to bathe him. The witcher, surprisingly, agreed, and here they were. Geralt chest-deep in a too-small tub, with Jaskier desperately trying to beat back the instinct to look just a little below the other man’s waistline. 

In his mind, there are five basic, ah,  _ themes _ , that people tend to need in terms of love. This -the bathing- falls under  _ acts of service.  _ Geralt doesn’t seem particularly enthused by it, wrinkling his nose at Jaskier’s scented oils and snarling at him when he takes away his ale. The witcher seems used to being self-reliant, which is why Jaskier offered the bath in the first place. Geralt can’t well get rid of the selkiemore guts in his hair on his own, and smelling nice  _ is  _ rather a given in court. Geralt isn’t wholly uncomfortable, but Jaskier can tell his ass is rather more clenched than usual, fists curling every time Jaskier brushed his shoulder. He mentally scratches off service, figuring that his foray into cracking Geralt’s enigma can wait. He laughs as the witcher claims he doesn’t need anyone, doesn’t  _ want _ anyone, crouches down to his level and pouts at him.  _ And yet here we are _ , he says, and damn him, but he swears he can see something flicker in the man’s amber eyes.

Geralt splutters as Jaskier dumps a bucket of water over his head, and the moment is broken.

He feels Geralt’s eyes on him all through the banquet, burning into his back as he makes his way through _ The Fishmonger’s Daughter _ and, of course,  _ Toss a Coin _ . The witcher proves essential, as another angry father demands recompense for his daughter’s stolen maidenhood. Jaskier startles when the witcher needles him back, tipping his head to keep his eyes locked on the bard, smiling soft and gentle in a way that has Jaskier choking into his ale for hours afterward.

Then, of course, everything goes to shit. Geralt plays the hero, and Jaskier finds himself, regrettably, distracted by the Comtesse de Stael. She’s older, robust, and so blindingly wealthy Jaskier’s head hurts just thinking about it. He loses track of Geralt, in the chaos, locking eyes with him just once before he’s storming out of the castle and Jaskier is left to smooth over the aftermath. 

Some way or another, seven years pass.  _ Some way or another _ , such bullshit, he thinks. It’s seven years of decadence and stability and fondling his way through the Comtesse’s household, and he can’t help but hate every minute of it. There’s a guilt, low in his stomach, for Geralt, and he waits with bated breath for every scrap of news the Comtesse’s son brings. After seven years he leaves, the taste of someone else on his lips and a story begging to be put into song. 

Destiny is kind to him; he finds Geralt not a league outside the city, casting a net into the water. Jaskier, of course, prattles on about heartbreak and fish, as Geralt’s shoulders seem to grow impossibly tenser. There are dark circles under his eyes, Jaskier realizes, and changes tack into more personal questions.  _ Quality time _ . Another of Jaskier’s love languages.  _ What’s going on, Geralt _ , and Geralt tiredly pours his story into Jaskier’s hands, hesitating only slightly. Maybe this one will work. He hasn’t slept, Jaskier is told, and, well, who can blame him? He’s pretty blatantly ignoring his Child Surprise; a djinn wish for sleep feels akin to putting salve on a tumor, and Jaskier tells him as much. 

The djinn wish goes wrong, because of fucking course it does. All of a sudden Jaskier can’t breathe, there’s blood everywhere and he belatedly realizes it’s  _ his _ . Geralt swings him up onto Roach (a first), and Jaskier’s one thought through the pain is  _ he’s panicking _ . It’s weak of him, and selfish, but when the healer tells him he may not regain his voice, he grabs for Geralt on instinct, his  _ fuck, Geralt _ gargled out through his own blood. Geralt grabs back, ashen-faced, and something in Jaskier takes a nasty pride in being able to flap the legendarily-unflappable witcher.  _ So much for quality time _ , he thinks, as he’s brought into a room of naked people, catching sight of more than a few townspeople's bits before a sorceress with violet eyes shuts his eyes for him. 

He’s dimly aware of Geralt at his bedside, more than a few times, and he’d be pleased if his body wasn’t so gods-damned bent on remaining asleep. When he does wake, it’s to an incredibly naked mage with an amphora on her belly. He, naturally, barrels his way out of the house, knocking the elven healer aside before  _ oh, thank the goddess, there he is _ . Geralt, alive and whole,  _ smiling. Jaskier, you’re alright _ , he says, and oh, those are some feelings, stirring low in his gut. Jaskier’s tongue runs loose, ruining the moment, a litany of  _ we’ve gotta go, crazy mage woman alert, amphora on her belly. _

Once-a-fucking-gain, Geralt plays the hero, ignoring Jaskier’s pleas of  _ let’s just go _ . He rushes into the house, un _ fairly _ sexily because when Jaskier runs he looks like a startled goose, and then. And then the house collapses, and Jaskier’s chest along with it. He drops to his knees, barely registering the bite of gravel into his skin.  _ I’ll write him a song _ . The best song that ever was, because it’s what Geralt deserves. Deserved. There are tears, pushing against his eyes, and he realizes his shirt is still covered in his own blood. 

And then Chireadan is beckoning him over and Geralt is alive and he’s  _ very alive _ . Moaning and groaning kind of alive. The caved-in feeling in Jaskier’s chest returns, because him finding Geralt that morning wasn’t destiny.  _ This _ is destiny. Geralt is fated to be surrounded by power; first Pavetta’s child, and now arguably the strongest mage Jaskier’s ever had the displeasure of meeting. So he leaves them, pats Roach one more time before setting off to goddess fucking knows where. 

One day. One gods-damned day in the company of Geralt of Rivia, and he’s had his heart broken once again. He’s been foolish, he knows, letting himself feel this much for one person. But gods, if he hadn’t felt vindicated in the way that Geralt trusted him enough to show him the djinn bottle, and worried enough to rush him to not one but two healers.  _ The folly of man _ . 

His travels, as always, take him far and wide. He writes a song, titles it  _ Her Sweet Kiss _ , hoping every audience he plays to will be drunk enough to not read into the lyrics. Most places, unfortunately, already know him as  _ the witcher’s bard _ ; it would be hell on earth should they connect the dots. So he sings, weaving up and down the Continent, encouraging patrons to pay their witchers and cautioning them against, er, women, he supposes. He’s flirtatious, he always is, because a promiscuous and fun bard pulls more coin than a tense, brooding one. But he no longer falls into bed with one (or more) townspeople at the end of the day, his heart still just a little too shattered to move on completely. 

And then Geralt-of-bloody-fucking-Rivia shows up again, and he’s got that soft, stupid smile on his face that he only uses for Jaskier, and, well. Things fall back into place once more, only he’s now spent half his life traipsing after a man who he knows will never love him back. Their destinies may not be together, but they sure are entangled, because Jaskier just can’t seem to give up on the idea of Geralt, and Geralt finds him time and again regardless of how they left things. They travel for a year, settling back into an easy rhythm, teasing and chatting on Jaskier’s part and hums and snarky comments on Geralt’s. He writes a ballad, maybe two, tries desperately not to let the yearning creep into his voice when he’s singing by the campfire late at night, watching Geralt out of the corner of his eye, willfully ignoring the way the fire glints off the other man’s hair.

The next thing Jaskier knows, he’s ripped from his bubble of near-domesticity, schlepping up a mountain to find a fucking  _ dragon _ . Yennefer is there, because of fucking course she is, and Jaskier is  _ tired _ . The old man and his rather attractive guardians fall off the side of the cliff, and Geralt’s eyes are haunted by the loss for the rest of the climb. They-being Jaskier, Geralt, Yennefer, and a handful of dwarves-set up camp in a sheltered alcove, Yennefer placing her tent neatly away from the others. Jaskier stands, wiping sweat off his brow before catching sight of a rather morose-looking witcher-shape brooding on a rock. He picks his way over, mindful of the dwarves’ spaces and scattered saddlebags. 

He sits, and for a moment there’s nothing but the wind whistling between them.  _ You tried your best, _ he starts.  _ There’s nothing else you could’ve done _ . Affirmation, maybe, to assuage the guilt that rolled off the witcher in waves. It isn’t working. Jaskier breathes, pads his words, asks one last time.  _ Why don’t we leave tomorrow _ ? It’s not a question so much as it is a plea.  _ Hear me, understand me. Love me _ . He’s weak, and he’s wanting. He brings up the coast, the last place on the Continent he truly felt happy, memories of warm sand and endless water tilting his lips upwards. 

Geralt, of course, pokes back.  _ Composing your next song? _ But there’s no heat in it, and Jaskier can’t miss the way his eyes flick to Yennefer’s tent.  _ Just trying to work out what pleases me _ , he replies, feeling what’s left of his heart collapse. He knows where Geralt will go, as soon as Jaskier leaves him. So, selfishly, he takes a few more moments. Revels in the breeze, the height of the mountain, the light of the setting sun. The shadows it casts on his friend’s face. 

He doesn’t sleep that night, only managing to drift off as the sky greys with the dawn. As such, he misses the battle-confrontation-dragon-man-thing entirely, catching up with the group after the fact. He sits himself on a ledge, watches as Borch rips Geralt’s fragile world apart. Yennefer portals away in a huff, and Geralt rounds on Borch, who leaves as well. He’s  _ hurting _ , Jaskier can see that much, even from this distance. In hindsight, he realizes, levity isn’t the best choice. Geralt shouts him out, ending with a particularly sharp  _ I _ _ f life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. _

If Jaskier had a heart left, it would’ve broken.

Still, he very much wants to leave, turn his back on the witcher for good. Climb back down the damn mountain himself, shut himself in some court, and live out the rest of his days in luxury. Maybe marry, have a few children, put down some roots.

Instead, he crosses the plain to Geralt, and puts his arms around the other man. Geralt stiffens, at first, but when it becomes clear Jaskier isn’t going to let go, he melts, bringing his hands up to cup Jaskier’s shoulder blades. Delicate, like the bard is 80 instead of a spry 40. He doesn’t cry; witcher’s don’t cry, maybe even can’t, for all Jaskier knows, but he shakes nonetheless, unsoothed by Jaskier’s gentle shushing and hair-petting. 

They stay that way for five, ten, twenty minutes, Jaskier isn’t entirely sure. Eventually the shaking subsides, and Geralt mumbles something unintelligible into the space between Jaskier’s shoulder and neck.  _ Louder, love _ , and then. 

_ Why are you still here. _

But it isn’t in anger, or really even in earnest. It’s barely a question, more of a statement, really, but one he deems requiring a response. Jaskier thinks, swaying them gently back and forth. The poet in him wrestles with it, longs to sugarcoat the words, drown them in flowers and honey until their true meaning disappears and the witcher grows sticky with sentences that mean nothing. 

Jaskier doesn’t do that.

_ I think because I love you. Have for a long time, probably. _ He says it like the hypotheticals will soften the blow, says it tremulous and tender, two decades of pining and feeling and wanting shoved into the language of an angsty fifteen-year-old. But it’s the truth, plain and simple, and Jaskier doesn’t get a moment to regret it before Geralt’s mouth is on his (he always forgets they’re of a height) and, oh. Geralt’s mouth tastes of ash and whatever he had for breakfast and a metallic tang that Jaskier has come to associate with magic. 

It’s not perfect, because somewhere along the line Jaskier’s begun to cry, nose dripping into their mouths, and his teeth keep clacking against Geralt’s canines, and yet. It’s as human as he’s ever felt, as fragile and strong and wholly  _ alive _ as he can be, in this moment. Geralt pulls back, wipes a thumb across Jaskier’s cheeks and sticks it into his mouth;  _ Gross, Geralt _ , but they’re both laughing, and maybe, just maybe, they’ll work it out. 

It takes Jaskier four more years before he convinces Geralt to visit the coast with him. They go to Redania, at the end of August, when the chill begins to creep from the north. They spend a day in a small village, standing shoeless in the water, napping in the sand. Geralt learns of an abandoned cottage, at the top of the cliff the village winds down. Jaskier gets pleasurably drunk as, unbeknownst to him, the witcher negotiates the price with the innkeep. He laughs when Geralt drops the key in his lap, teasing him,  _ I need nothing and nobody _ , gruff in a mockery of the other man.  _ And yet here we are _ , Geralt shoots back, smiling that gods-damned soft smile. 

Here they were. 

**Author's Note:**

> anotha one! (that got incredibly away from me, wow)  
> i am so very tired you guys i've had little to no motivation to, in the words of [oddconstellation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts), WRITE, but. here we are!  
> yes there are both harry styles AND phantom of the opera lyrics in there, no i did not nail all the five love languages   
> come find me on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/) for occasional midnight content  
> as always, much much much love!! hope y'all enjoyed <3


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